


Two prophets and a wolf

by MissingTriforce



Series: A Kinder Universe [5]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Multi, One Shot, Schmoop, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissingTriforce/pseuds/MissingTriforce
Summary: When the war ended and it was finally time to introduce Cassandra to Anatole, Beckett realized he’d forgotten they were both Malkavian.One-shot, cuddle-fic! Takes place in ~1950.
Relationships: Beckett (Vampire: the Masquerade)/Anatole (Vampire: the Masquerade), Beckett/Original Malkavian Character(s) (Vampire: The Masquerade)
Series: A Kinder Universe [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645372
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Two prophets and a wolf

When the war ended and it was finally time to introduce Cassandra to Anatole, Beckett realized he’d forgotten they were both Malkavian.

Well, not that he’d _forgotten_ per se, but the consequences of the fact had slipped his mind. He was more eager to get on with the next adventure—a group of Laibon had heard of his and the Bonpensieros’ work in Libya with the Eye, and they had offered an exchange of information. All Cassandra needed to do was demonstrate her power, and they would answer any questions about their society and legacies. A truly unique chance to gather fascinating information. Rumor had it that the Laibon legacies resembled Caine more—whatever “resemblance” meant—and that alone made Beckett’s fingers itch to record—

So one can understand why Beckett, in his distraction, forgot that one prophet of Gehenna was meeting the other until Anatole’s eyes widened to saucers and his thin, frail fingers reached out. Beckett hadn’t even introduced them properly, and Cassandra was joining her hands with Anatole’s in holy palmer’s kiss. Their two heads bent together, brow to brow, as they murmured the Lord’s Prayer in Latin.

“Catholics,” Beckett said, trying to form his voice into a fond scoff and cover up his moment on ineptitude.

Cassandra’s platinum curls continued to tangle with Anatole’s deep yellow mane. They looked so peaceful: eyes closed, angelic smiles on their faces as their lips formed well-practiced lines. Cassandra was a tall woman and Anatole, a tall man—their heights matched exactly.

Finally, they were done delivering themselves from evil. Anatole’s deep blue eyes opened, and he gave an absent, gentle smile. Cassandra untwined one hand to cup Anatole’s cheek and swipe a thumb across a sharp cheekbone. “This is what your face looks like,” she said, soft.

Thoughts clicked so hard it was almost audible. Anatole and Cassandra had spoken in the Cobweb? About what? Not him, surely?

“And this is yours, my sister in Christ,” Anatole said. He broke their joined hands to touch her cheek in wonder. “Just like in the films.”

Cassandra laughed, and the whole room seemed to take a breath. Beckett no longer felt the odd Kindred out. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I see there is no need to introduce you.”

Cassandra shook her glittering head. “None at all, darling. Anatole’s been telling me about you since we met in Los Angeles. Though I didn’t realize it was him at first.”

Beckett arched a questioning brow at his friend. “Do you really feel such a need to keep tabs on me?”

Anatole shrugged with a definitely false innocence. “It is something to do.”

“Between prayers I imagine.”

Anatole’s innocent smile widened to an almost sinister edge. “Oh yes.”

Beckett mock-glared at him, but Anatole gave up nothing more.

“Well, I would like some blood,” Cassandra said suddenly, clapping her hands together and looking between the two men. “It’s in the cellar, you mentioned? I’m positively famished. All that Obfuscate so I could window shop.”

Before Beckett could so much as protest, Cassandra fluttered down the hall, seeming to know perfectly well where she was going. Anatole’s current haven was a 17th century monastery within the Paris city limits, so the complex was by necessity small. To know where the cellar was would be no great challenge, but evidently Cassandra and Anatole touched minds often enough for her to know the secret key’s hidey hole. They hadn’t just been talking—they’d been _gossiping_.

“Shall we?” Anatole gestured wide in welcome, as if showing off the authentic stone tiling. “I have furnished the guest room just for you. Small windows boarded up, heavy black curtains, a large bed, and the biggest desk. Lots of pens, paper, and even a typewriter. Or would you like to make sure I’m safely storing all the books and scrolls and stone tablets you’ve sent me? Your room has six bookcases of the modern ones, and the more delicate, aged tomes are in the place’s old scriptorium.”

Beckett gave up on being peeved. “No, I trust you about on book storage. Show me the room.”

A wisp of anxiousness in the tremor of Anatole’s hand. “You will like it. Lucita told me you would. The last time she was here with her wife Fatima.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect.” He bumped shoulders with Anatole. “Though I observe your sense of fashion has reverted back to the medieval period.”

Anatole bit his thumb at Beckett in reply.

Beckett chuckled, and the silence between them as they walked the elderly monastic hallways was comfortable. The swish of Anatole’s monkish skirts settled his mind like nothing else could. The guest room was situated to the front of the complex, and the space was appointed just as Anatole described, with an addition of a sofa, soft rugs on the floor, and a fireplace. A fire crackled, warming the room and granting it a dim, homey glow. Beckett was charmed. This would be a suitable study at Oxford, much less an Autarkis Kindred’s haven. For important teasing purposes, Beckett made a show of inspecting everything from the cushions to the books’ organization. Anatole wrung his hands. “Do you like it?”

Beckett hummed and stroked his chin like he had a beard. “No.”

Anatole tilted his head and, a beat later, narrowed his eyes. “Liar.”

Beckett grinned. “It’s perfect, my friend. _Much_ better than that dratted asylum.”

“Praise the Lord,” Anatole said, delight lighting up his narrow face. “Come sit and let me have a look at you. Cassandra’s never the most reliable eye.”

They settled on the sofa in front of the fire, and Beckett shushed his Beast at its growl of anxiety. Everything was fine. You’re full, you’re safe, you’re warm; you’re with friends. What more could an animal want?

“Tell me the story,” Anatole said. His gaze, usually frightening in its deep blue intensity for those who did not know him, was soft now, in the firelight. He rested his elbow on the sofa’s back so his fist could hold up his head. Relaxed.

“You don’t want to read the journal and make comments?” Beckett smirked. “Point out all the flaws in my plans?”

Anatole waved a lazy hand. “I will. But let your voice tell the tale first.”

He didn’t need further prompting and launched into the adventure and several sidetracks into connections to other theories and lore. The Anarchs did have a floating city—a loose collection of tall ships off the West African coast. Beckett had never seen so many Brujah in one place, and the question of blood afflicted the city greatly. Beckett was just in the middle of telling a funny bit about a fledging asking Cassandra to teach them Dementation, when Anatole’s hand crossed the distance between them and cupped his cheek.

“You are happy,” Anatole said. His long, pale fingers dragged through Beckett’s hair.

Beckett’s own hands automatically cradled Anatole’s wrist. He nuzzled into the palm. “I trust your judgement on the matter.”

Anatole’s hand smoothed its way down Beckett’s jaw. “You are not starved, little wolf.”

“Are you?” Beckett asked. “You have been eating?”

Anatole shook his head. “Not that kind of hunger.” The last of his touch left Beckett’s chin. “My darling.”

“Cassandra calls me that.” He kissed Anatole’s knuckles. “I suppose you know.”

“Come to bed with me still,” Anatole whispered, his voice low and husky. “I missed you.” He tugged Beckett by the lapels of his jacket until their lips met in a kiss as chaste as it was quick.

A hundred memories of those lips’ softness sprung to the forefront of Beckett’s mind. He chased them down to their source, scooting closer yet closer. Anatole tasted like red honey, the crimson gold liquid granting visions and drunkenness and intoxication in equal measure. Warmth, limbs, and night-noises blurred together as he sucked on Anatole’s tongue, as he explored and sipped. Rare and mad and beautiful. God, he’d longed for this.

A hand pushed against Beckett’s chest. “Beckett.” He stopped—what was wrong? His eyes fluttered open. “You still wear these?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Beckett breathed, fighting his inner Beast that very much wanted to get back to their embrace.

“Cassandra never shows me pictures of you wearing them. Your eyes are never cloistered, with her. I thought you had stopped. And these,” Anatole lightly touched Beckett’s gloved hands, “are gone.”

“I suppose.”

Something like soft anger seized Anatole’s sharp features. The prophet ripped the gloves off with his teeth. The sunglasses he more gently removed, but the kiss afterwards was anything but. He kissed like it was claiming, cradled Beckett’s head with determination, and bit down hard enough that Beckett swallowed blood.

Beckett abruptly stood up against the assault. He didn’t need to breathe, but his body wasn’t paying attention to him. “Bed,” he pronounced and pointed. He licked his lips to heal the wound.

Anatole rose and took off his robes without breaking his hypnotic gaze. Beckett followed suit until they were both naked. Being Kindred, they had not changed much, so Beckett knew exactly what he was in for as Anatole’s lithe body stalked his thicker one.

When Beckett had told Cassandra that Anatole was celibate, he had not lied. Love from Anatole took the form of being pushed backward into the bed, being kissed until mad, white stars popped behind one’s eyelids, having one’s neck and collarbones worshipped with little loving bites, and rubbing day-old scruff against one’s cheeks. Light fingers drew meaningless shapes into the skin, trailed down the line of Beckett’s hips, and smoothed the hair on his legs. It meant being covered in that honey scent, whispered affirmations in the dark, and feeling as if he held a heart heavy with possessive adoration.

“A pity you are not actually Malkavian,” Anatole murmured into the soft flesh of Beckett’s stomach. “I would whisper to you nightly and sculpt only pleasant dreams. From continents away, I would be with you; tell you how to touch and tease.”

“I think you’re doing a good enough job at present,” Beckett said. In truth, his being tipped between sleep and falling—wound up and hypersensitive yet relaxed enough to melt into the mattress. He was whatever the opposite of touch-starved was. Overdrawn. Trembling.

“Hush,” Anatole nuzzled and looped an arm around Beckett’s waist. Beckett clutched at his blonde hair. “The fire is low. Can you feel the sun?”

Beckett breathed to center himself. Marvelous, magic breath. Yes—torpor drew near, steady and ominous. A thought niggled the back of his mind. “Should I be worried that Cassandra is draining your entire stock of blood? It’s been hours.”

Anatole laughed low. “No, sweetness of my heart. She’s reading in the scriptorium.” Anatole lifted himself up to kiss Beckett again, and Beckett tasted as much as the honey as he could. As close to drunkenness as he had ever been. “Do you want her here?” the honey purred.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Beckett said, but kissed Anatole languid again. Man alive, did he even have bones? He smoothed a hand from Anatole’s arm pit to bottom rib, fingering the bone like spines of books.

“I call her,” Anatole said, and Beckett didn’t miss his smirk. “You really have a type, you know that?”

Beckett yawned big enough to show his teeth. “Too early for teasing.”

Anatole traced a nail down Beckett’s jaw. “Wait for her.” Anatole nudged Beckett to roll over, and he obliged so Anatole could wrap himself like an octopus, front to Beckett’s back.

Beckett couldn’t resist commenting. “Are you shy?”

“You shall be the sword between us. When the inn had one bed, but both a holy man and a lady had a need for it, the saint would hand her his dagger, saying if he made a move to threaten her, she may wreak her vengeance.”

Beckett snickered and squeezed Anatole’s hand. “As you like.”

They waited in comfortable, dozing silence. The door creaked and that was only warning before a cool hand smoothed his hair from his brow. “Darling?”

“Cassandra,” Beckett rumbled. “Come sleep.”

A deep, feminine laugh. “You seem wrapped up.”

“You are welcome all the same,” a muffled Anatole said. “Sister.”

A content sigh, a slipping of cloth, and Cassandra’s willowy heat joined the bed. She kissed Beckett’s cheek, but he wouldn’t allow only that. He captured her mouth and tried his best to convey his contentment.

“Good morning, beauties,” Cassandra said. “Sleep well.”


End file.
